John Was A Friend Of Mine
by Dreaming-Of-A-Nightmare
Summary: "It was an accident. I didn't know, didn't mean- and there is no motive to this crime. John was a friend of mine, you all know that. So what do you want me to do?" .:. NOT a songfic, but inspired by The Killers' music. Johnlock. character death. oneshot.


**A/N: Heavily inspired by the lyrics of 'Jenny Was A Friend of Mine' by The Killers (a band I will never get tired of, lol), but this is NOT a songfic.**

**TRIGGER WARNING: character death.**

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><p>John and I were out for a stroll along the bridge. The London night was cool, and the clouds were heavy, foreboding. There was mist in the air, and I suspected it would drizzle soon.<p>

John kept his hands in his pockets, and he seemed upset; he was too quiet, and I didn't like it. I asked him repeatedly why he wanted to walk along the bridge, why he thought we couldn't have whatever conversation we're about to have in the privacy of our own flat.

(But it wasn't _our_ flat, not anymore. John had been staying more and more at this woman's house, some Mary Morstan, a woman whom I suspected to be a cheater, but had no proof that she'd done so to John, and therefore couldn't tell him.)

He shook his head and refused to give me any answers. He looked hurt. I wanted him to relax, to smile. So I kept pestering him, asking him what's going on. There were no tells about the situation; I couldn't deduce much, but I did have a strong sense that it concerned Mary.

Finally, as Big Ben behind us gave a chime of the half hour past nine, John opened his mouth. He stopped walking. The drizzle came down, sprinkling our faces. I looked at John and didn't tear my eyes away from him, not a single car, person, or hurrying bicyclist distracting me as they flew by around us.

"I'm moving out of 221b. Mary and I are getting married. We've found a place of our own," he told me, and I felt my insides tense up and grow icy cold. The rain became heavier, and it stung my face. He hands shook at my sides; I hardly noticed that I had clenched them into fists until my muscled spasmed and ached inside my gloves.

"Is that so?" I asked, tone harsh and painful. "Well. I wish she brings you happiness." My words contradicted the jagged, cruel tone of sarcasm I couldn't hold back.

And I turned and began to walk briskly through the rain, but John skittered after me, tugging on my coat sleeve to turn me around. "Sherlock, don't be an ass! You knew this was coming. I love you, but she's what I need. Stability, children; that's what I'm going to have."

Of course. And he deserved that. I could never give him any of that, and I understood. I knew that he loved me platonically, and he knew that I loved him with everything I possessed, and then some. He knew we weren't matched; not in love, and certainly not in mind. I didn't want anything he did, and he wanted everything I didn't. The only common factor between us lately had been our work, our cases. But even that was wearing thin, because I kept craving more from him than he could give, and he kept wishing for things I couldn't return.

Family, stability, like he mentioned. And that _hurt._

I growled, "Fine. Then this is goodbye, John. You can live your happy little life with _Mary_," I spat her name venomously, "And I will grow bored and alone and most likely return to my drugs and life of being half the consultant I am without the right assistant. It all works out for everyone involved," and I was being unfair and vicious and bitter, and John looked as though I had struck him across the face. Maybe I even wanted to, but the part of me that loved him – a great part, I might add – refused to let me move my hand.

He became angry, then. He burst out, his usual gentle voice raised loud and deep: "Oh, shut the bloody _fuck _up, Sherlock! I knew you would lash out like this; that's why I didn't want to tell you, and especially not at the flat where you could break everything in sight! God, why do you have to be so _selfish_?"

"Because I was _born _selfish, John!" I reminded him coldly, my own voice loud and thunderous. Our faces were close, our bodies on edge. I wanted to kiss him. I wanted to punch him. I wanted anything that would either bring him back to me or banish him from my thoughts forever. But I can't delete an entire person; I've tried with Mycroft, but it doesn't work. I can delete useless information about planets and animal facts and the like, but I can't erase human beings, and especially not ones who are so important to me in one form or another.

"I'm through with this. Have a nice life, Sherlock. Try not to kill yourself with an accidental overdose, and please try your damnedest not to contact me again," he uttered lowly and oddly, his voice shaking. He stormed off, and that time, I was the one to call out to him, because in the second it took for him to turn and walk away, my heart dropped to my knees and my face fell and tears blossomed in my eyes.

"John? John, wait! _John!_" and I rushed after him, desperate and hurt and angry, and I wrapped my arms around him from behind, my nose in his hair atop his head, and he ceased all movement, his arms trapped to his sides. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, John. I'm sorry," I repeated over and over. "Please. Please, John, don't hate me. Don't neglect me for the rest of your life. I'm sorry."

He sighed a giant gust of air, as if he was exhausted and fed up with me. He loosened my tight grip enough to turn around and face me, eyes peering into my eyes. Oh, John. Always so forgiving, even of someone like me. He sighed again, shorter this time, and through his nose. He shook his head. "We can't go on like this, at least. I need to pack my things tomorrow, and you can't stop me."

"I won't," I whispered, and the tears fell. John pitied me; it was written all over his sweet face.

"Oh, Sherlock," he breathed, and he dropped his head to my chest and wrapped his arms around me. I shuddered a breath and clung to him, but I didn't sob or weep. The tears fell few and silent, and I held onto him with all my might.

And that's when things went wrong.

"I love you," I told him, because he had never heard it before, had only guessed at it, and I never denied it. But now I told him, and I shook, muscles on the fritz, and I gripped him tighter and tighter, almost attempted to merge his body with mine.

He started to panic. John struggled, pushing against me and kicking mildly. "Sherlock!" he cried, voice a muffled hum barely understood against my scarf and coat, and the rain whipped up with a sudden wind, slapping me with icy droplets, but I didn't let go.

I loved John and couldn't let him go. Not to Mary, not to pack his things, not even to walk down the street again. I refused to let up even for a second. I swore I would never let him go, never again. John couldn't leave me; I needed him. He kept me tethered to the world. John was my everything.

John jerked more and more, and I held him close. He couldn't scream; I was cutting off anything he had to even say my name. He made muffled hum-shrieks and maybe even choked on a sob, hands scrambling on my back, my sides, his legs trying to kick mine. But I still held on.

"I love you, John," I repeated brokenly, and slowly, he grew still. Then he grew quiet. He was warm against me, warmer than everything else. I cradled him and buried myself in him and still heard nothing, felt no further resistance.

And that's when I realized that something was off.

I pulled away and looked down at his face. His eyes were closed and his mouth was slack and his nose looked bruised. He wasn't breathing.

"John? John!" I exclaimed, and I shook him by the shoulders, but I was all that was holding him up. My hands slipped from his arms as he fell to his knees, face against my thigh, and when I took a step back, he was facedown on the rainy ground.

I rolled him over. I performed CPR. But he had no pulse, even as I tried to revive him. I wished for a defibrillator, I wished I hadn't clung so passionately; I wish a lot of things. But nothing was bringing him back to me. He was gone.

I killed him. I killed John Watson, my only friend, my only love, my everything. I stole the breath from his lungs, and smothered him with my desperation.

I sobbed over his body, and only when a concerned driver pulled over and asked us what was wrong did I stop. John was cold, I felt sick and steely inside, and the man realized what I had done and called the police.

"…And what's why I'm here. That's why I'm facing all of you; Donavan, Lestrade. Donavan, you told John once that, one day, you would all be standing over a body and I would have put it there. But tell me what you want to know, what you want to hear, because how can I explain it? It was an accident. I didn't know, didn't mean… and there is no motive to this crime. John was a friend of mine, you all know that. So what do you want me to do?"

"I know what you're doing here," Donavan accuses. "You're trying to make us pity you. But tough luck, Freak; you're ours now. You confessed. We have it all on tape. And now you're going to pay for it."

"…Manslaughter. Murder. I know my rights, I know the laws, I know everything. I studied it. Had to for my work. So I know what's going to happen. But I can promise you this: I won't be alive long enough for you to see me carry out my full sentence."

I refuse to live in a world without John, to have a life in which I killed him.

"You wouldn't dare," Lestrade exclaims.

"No? You don't think so?" I grin wildly. "_Watch me._"

And I am too quick for them. I stand, grab Lestrade's gun from his holster, and shoot myself in the chest.

Light's out.


End file.
